


Simplicity Itself

by Tyleet



Category: Batman (Movies - Nolan)
Genre: Attempted Brainwashing, M/M, Mild Gore, casual ableist language
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-12-18
Updated: 2009-12-18
Packaged: 2017-10-04 13:07:51
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,487
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/30409
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tyleet/pseuds/Tyleet
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's simple. No, it's complicated. The two of them.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Simplicity Itself

**Author's Note:**

> Heavily inspired by both _The Killing Joke_ and _The Dark Knight Returns_. You'll be able to see where, if you're at all familiar with either of them.

  
x

It's simple. The two of them.

They're Harvey's coin, scarred and beautiful.

Maybe it is madness, but that's never bothered him before.

x

**1\. Recognition**

Bruce meets her at the opening of GMCA's newest exhibit--an exploration of crime in America's biggest crime city, done in every shade of modern art weirdness possible. Batman stars, and Bruce couldn't resist. She came on someone else's arm. Probably picked for her naturally blonde hair and not for the way her eyes flicker over the guests and the sculptures, smile quirked to just this side of interesting.

Her name is Selina.

"Sounds made up," he says, draining his champagne glass.

"You would know about that, wouldn't you?" she smiles slyly, and he forces himself to swallow, a pit opening up in his stomach.

She has tired green eyes and a curling red mouth and a slight, wiry body. Her hair is a deep blonde, slicked straight back from her forehead and falling halfway down her neck. She's sarcastic, cynical. She's working as a model.

She's exactly Bruce's type.

"What do you mean?"

"I mean you're drinking ginger ale, Mr. Wayne."

"And I suddenly feel the pressing need to change the subject."

When he finds her in the Museum Collections at three in the morning masked and dressed in black leather, a priceless Yoruban sculpture in one hand and a whip in the other, he realizes she's exactly Batman's too.

"So let's talk about the Batman."

"I like the one in black lam`e best."

"You're not drawn to any of the Joker displays? Take this one here. Black and white, inverted in meaning. The desperate struggle of two enemies fatally attracted to one another. You suprise me, Mr. Wayne."

She's perfect.

"Attracted? That's ridiculous. Look at them--they hate each other."

"It's also the title of the piece. 'Fatal Attraction.' There is a certain thrill to be had in mingling hatred and desire, isn't there?"

Of course he's going to turn her in. He's Batman. That's what he does. That doesn't stop him from shoving her up against the wall and kissing her breathless once he realizes that she isn't twisting under him like that because she wants to get away.

"I wouldn't know about that. They look like mortal enemies to me. Okay. Batman vs. the Joker. In a--wrestling match. Who would win?"

"Batman."

"You really got a thing for the Big Black, don't you?"

Realization comes to him in a series of images: one black gloved hand reaching up to tangle her short gelled hair into wild disarray, her laugh lines harshened by lust and moonlight, his tongue tracing her smeared lipstick up the curve of her cheek, her fingernails stinging through the weakest gaps in his armor like ten tiny knives.

" I suppose you might say that. Not that I don't appreciate the Joker."

It really hits him when she starts to laugh, just a little, just with exhiliration, and he _freezes_, caught between the sudden need to come _now_ and an overwhelming wave of nausea.

Horror wins out, and he backs away, hard as a rock and choking down bile.

"It's just that Batman is so much _sexier_."

She's furious. She gets away.

Bruce sits a long time in the dark.

x

It's simple. The two of them.

The first time they kiss is achingly simple.

He starts it as a distraction, to throw him off balance. Batman finishes it with a desperate skill that only comes with deep repression and turns the Joker into a gibbering melty mess of lustful makeup coated goo. His bat tongue does things with the Joker's scar tissue that are illegal in twenty states.

Things that make him want to get down on his knees and worship him if Batman really wanted it, things that make him want to scream out how absolutely _nuts_ he is about him. That make him want to do anything Batman asked him to. _Anything._ He wants to tell Batman that he couldn't get along without him, but that would involve taking his mouth away, and that would be Bad. And Batman's hands are going very interesting places and the disgust in his eyes is so _perfect._

And when it gets to be too much to bear, the Joker simply detonates the bomb and lets Batman race off to go save people. He finishes himself off with the sure knowledge that Batman would never, ever acknowledge that this had happened, and that it was sure to happen again.

Simple.

x

 

**2\. The First Step **

They're fighting in the harbor this time. Out on a deserted wharf at night. Not for any particular reason. The Joker just decides he wants an ocean view. It's that simple. The rest of the game is straightforward, too: the Joker rigs bombs. Batman tries to stop the Joker. Very simple. One of those times when all he's really after is a reminder to Gotham that he's still out there, still smilin'.

It stays simple during the actual fight--Batman's trying out a new suit, a bit heavier, harder for knives to pierce through. His reactions are still lightning quick. The Joker is at a slight disadvantage, trying to keep hold of his steak knife in one hand and the detonator in the other. He's very nearly forced to drop the knife and use a gun when he sees his salvation: a bright red rescue tube, just lying there on the dock. He takes the opportunity to use it as a battering ram, cackling as Batman is knocked off the dock into the harbor with a gigantic splash.

This is where it gets complicated.

"How's the--the water, cupcake?" he calls out, wheezing with laughter. It is December, after all.

But Batman doesn't surge up in an explosion of freezing water, dripping and angry like a very pissed off Loch Ness monster. In fact, as far as the Joker can tell, nothing breaks the surface of the water at all. He peers down at it, frowning.

"Bats? Uh, _Batman_?" He waits a few seconds and then flinches and whirls around, as though expecting a blow from behind. There's nobody there. He twists back around, mouth dropping open. The thought occurs to him out of nowhere: _Armor is hard to swim in_. He fumbles and nearly drops the detonator.

"Bbbaat--"

About thirteen feet from the edge of the dock, a harpoon line breaks the surface, shooting up from below, only to sink back down. The Joker lunges towards it, hitting the icy water belly first, hands reaching out blindly into the darkness beneath him. It doesn't occur to him to return to the surface for another breath. He will find the line, or he'll breathe in.

He hits the edge of the spear with his forearm, hard, almost a full minute later, and tries not to giggle with relief. He clenches his hand around it and makes it to the dock, laboriously hauling himself back up with one hand. Then he really hits his frenzy, yanking furiously on the line, every muscle in his body straining to pull over two hundred pounds of deadweight to the surface.

When black ears clear the water, he's so excited that he actually lets go of the line, and has to make a hurried lunge to catch the masked man by the edge of his waterlogged cloak before he sinks back down.

He slams Batman onto the dock, laughing raggedly, notices disappointedly that the other man wasn't actually grasping the other end of the spear gun, but had the weapon clipped to his utility belt. Then he notices that the Bat isn't breathing.

"Oh, fuck. _Fuck_. Fuckfuck_fuck_fuck_fuck_." The Joker crouches over him, slapping anxiously at Batman's cheeks with every syllable. Blood from where the spear gun and its line cut at his palms smears onto Batman's face. "Hey. Hey, ah, wake up. _Wake up._" There is no movement, and the Joker growls low in his throat, hands skittering helplessly over the other man's body.

"Not dead, you're not dead. You're _not,_" he punctuates the snarl with a vicious pinch to each cheek, pulling the skin out beyond the cowl and _shaking_ it.

He smoothes the skin back down again abruptly, jerking both hands up and down the mask before grabbing hold of the ears and lifting the other man's head up. "_Bat_man," he rasps. There is no answer.

He drops Batman's head, and it makes a cracking sound when it hits the dock. He licks his lips. Then he decisively pinches the nose of the cowl shut and lowers his mouth to Batman's. And sucker punches him right in the solar plexus.

Batman gags and the Joker barely avoids getting a lungful of seawater coughed directly into his mouth. He releases a few high, gasping giggles and punches him again and again in quick succession. Batman turns his head to the side and vomits, painful coughs wracking his frame. The Joker's punches become slaps, and the slaps quickly subside into staccato pats.

He stops when Batman gathers enough strength to growl at him. He gives one last laugh like a shriek of relief and collapses on top of him, heedless of Batman's pained groan. The Joker rests there bonelessly, face pressed against Batman's heaving chest, one hand still rubbing vaguely at the suit's midsection. Batman closes his eyes and struggles for breath.

After his breath steadies out, the Joker speaks into his chest. "So. Next time, I'm staging our little confrontation. In. Doors."

"Not going to be a next time," Batman grates out stubbornly, and the Joker looks up to giggle at him, propping his chin up on the bat symbol engraved on the suit.

" You're not, not _faking_ the voice right now, are you? It's just that normally, you sound like cut glass. And right now it sounds like you're vomiting. Raazors."

Batman ignores him, baring his teeth briefly. The effect is somewhat ruined by the way his eyes keep drooping shut. "I'm...taking you in."

"Mmm--hm." The Joker scoots forwards on his elbows until his face is directly above Batman's, hair dripping down onto the cowl. "In a minute."

Batman's eyes widen suddenly. "What about the bombs?" he forces out, making a valiant attempt to sit up. The Joker impatiently prods him back down with one finger.

"What bombs?" He licks his lips and tries to look innocent.

"_Joker,_" Batman rasps, and the murder in his eyes makes the Joker shiver. Batman's body tensing under his makes him relent, just this once.

"Well, uh." He flops back down, ducking his head between Batman's neck and shoulder. "You know, the thing with detonators is. They're actually not supposed to get _wet_."

Batman grunts, and the Joker smiles into the Kevlar on the side of his neck.

"Get off me."

"You could say thank you. I've practically, ah, given you the night off!"

"Joker. Off." He takes a feeble swing at the Joker's ribs. It comes out more like a pat.

The Joker burrows in deeper. "How about we just wait for the police to show this time?"

Batman snorts. "You're _crazy_."

The Joker looks at him.

They're both lying in seawater vomit. The Joker's hands are bleeding sluggishly all over both of them. Batman's mouth is smeared with blood and lipstick. He can't help it--he bursts out laughing.

"Batsy--if you--heh heh--if you want to call me that, _smile._"

After a moment, Batman chuckles wearily with him.

It's simple, really.

x

It's complicated.

"Look, it's not that I don't--I just don't understand why you can't--just this once, just _this one_, Jesus. If anyone deserves it, it's him. Gotham deserves it. "

"I won't. I'm not him."

"We both know Arkham can't hold him. He comes back of his own free will now. Like it's a goddamn resort. We _can't_ hold him."

"I don't kill. You want him dead, Jim, you can try it."

There's a long, chilly pause. And then--

"Will you try to save him?"

"No," Batman says, and doesn't know if he's lying.

x

**3\. Recovery**

 

There was this one time Gotham decided to make a genuine attempt at rehabilitating its criminals. Well, all right. Not a genuine attempt. A political campaign. A pretty good one, too--Gotham was tired of all the supercriminals that kept cropping up on its streets. What better image of change than rehabilitation? Scores of priests and yoga teachers and salivating cameramen were funneled into the county jail. A program on the use of Vipassana in the juvenile detention center.

And they needed a poster boy. One of those supercriminals, the really evil ones. The baddest baddie in Gotham City. Needed that tangible image of reform, someone people could look at and say: If they can fix _him_, they can do anything!

In the end, fixing him was easy. The Mayor made it a top priority, drew a lot of public attention complete with banquet dinners and half a dozen high profile celebrities dancing attention to the cause. He didn't quite get the Jolie-Pitts, but enough Hollywood faces to be taken seriously. And of course, there was always Bruce Wayne, who would donate thousands to anything, though he seemed particularly willing to shell it out for the Criminal Rehabilitation Fund. Arkham got an upgrade. And Dr. Volper, a brand new prestigious head docter who was confident he could crack the Joker's case. And a full-time plastic surgeon. The works.

It went well.

Once again, his face filled the media, only this time in before and after pictures. Once the terror of all Gotham, now a docile civilian. Billboards of his new face were plastered all over Gotham, stamped over with inspirational words: Purify. Change. Rebirth. He's absolutely cured, Dr. Volper said. It's astounding.

For the finale, they put him on a talk show.

After he kills the host, the technicians, the guest stars and the small studio audience, the cameras are still rolling. He draws in very close to the lens, dragging Dr. Volper with him by the throat, grinning widely.

"Y'_know_, I think you've asked before how I got. These. _Scars_," his voice dips into a growl on the word scars, unoccupied hand flickering up to pat at his smooth cheeks.

He licks his lips. The tick looks even more unnatural on his unmarked mouth. "And I held out on you. I never told you--the truth. Sorry," and a few high pitched giggles claw their way out of him, "I just didn't know if you could--handle the truth!"

"But _now_\--" he pushes Dr. Volper forwards, who has his face screwed up like a small child's, weeping around the fist crushing his windpipe. "_Now you get to know_."

He folds a knife into the doctor's hand, and clenches his own, viselike, around it. Guides the hand to his mouth. He groans at the first cut, even as the doctor screams hoarsely, struggling to get away and stopping when the hand at his throat clenches in. The Joker's eyes slit and his whole frame shakes as he struggles not to laugh. He squeezes the doctor's throat rythmically with every slice.

When it's over, he tries to suck the knife clean. It doesn't work, because there is simply too much blood, and anyway his tongue is bleeding too. It's sheeting down his front, onto his hands, spattered in his hair. He drops the doctor to the floor and laughs. It is a terrible thing. His hands come up to caress the camera, smearing blood everywhere.

"Oh, _Gotham_," he groans, still smiling brilliantly. "You have--" and his skin is flapping loosely with every word, and his tongue flickers inside his cheeks--"no idea how much I've, ah, mmmissed you. _Ba_by."

He traces a heart onto the lens. "I'm _back_."

Bruce Wayne watches it all from the belly of the Tumbler. He is five minutes from the television studio. He is at least ten minutes too late. His face under the cowl is blank with horror.

 

Bruce catches him on the roof of his own penthouse a day later. The plastic surgeon is already dead. The Mayor is under police protection on his way to L.A. It makes sense that the Joker would come after Bruce Wayne next.

For once, he's totally alone. No minions, no operation. Just the Joker and a potato peeler. Alfred is downstairs protected by a thousand security cameras, a hidden system of rooms, a shotgun and Batman. Bruce is still terrified.

"No, no--you're not _supposed_ to--come back in an hour," the Joker pants, dodging a batarang.

"That's not part of my job description," Bruce growls, throwing another. It distracts the Joker enough that he can get within grabbing distance.

"What about--ahh--_just this once_?"

The Joker is wild. Wilder than ever. The shape of his mouth is different, wrong, because the line of the scars themselves are wrong. The stitches are as clumsy as before, and drawn far too tight, making the infected skin pucker and bulge unnaturally. Bruce can only imagine the pain he must be in. It's infected with bubbles of pus, blood and ichor constantly oozing out of the cracks. His tongue slides through it all.

Bruce finally manages to get a hold on the Joker's hands, twisting them up over his head. The Joker twists in his hold, head tossing back and forth distressedly.

"I have to take you back."

The Joker barks out an ugly laugh. "You can't take me back. You think I'd _let_ you? After _this_?"

Bruce has no way to explain the tightness in his chest, so he doesn't try. "They won't try again, Joker. That's done."

"Not," the Joker growls, "the issue." He puts all his strength behind his next kick, and Bruce is forced to drop his arms. The Joker immediately tries to run, but Bruce lunges at him, and once again they're dancing.

"You should really go," the Joker tells him again, sounding agitated. "I can't play right now."

"Why?" Bruce pours all the frustration that isn't going into his fists into the word. This is what the Joker wants. It's always what the Joker wants.

"Business, batty, Daddy's got business now. I even made a list. Play later."

"Who's the list?"

"Weeell, that's the rub, isn't it? Top secret, Confidential, Do Not Open Before Christmas information."

Bruce has him pinned again. Punching that raw new face over and over. "Who?"

The Joker moans, writhes under him.  
"Wantitohyeah,wantitwaitwant, oh, I don't have time for this--"

"Who else is it, Joker?"

"This--isn't--your game, Batsy."

Batman slams him into the concrete. "_Who_?"

The Joker's hands shoot up, grasp violently at Batman's head. His voice is a scratching snarl. "_How could you let them do this to me_?"

Bruce is shocked into stillness.

"Batman," the Joker rasps, eyes burning into Bruce's. "They _stole_ my _face_." His fingers creep under the edge of Batman's cowl. "They stole my face," he repeats, like Bruce will understand.

Bruce closes his eyes. "You let this one go. You leave Bruce Wayne and everyone else on your list out of it." And how sick is it, that he's finally been reduced to bargaining with a killer? "And I let you go."

That earns him a genuine laugh. "Sorry, sweetcheeks, not good enough. Not this time. You want to, uh, arrange a playdate? Give me a week, that's all I need."

"I can't let you kill innocents," Bruce says in disgust.

"You never do," the Joker agrees. "But hey. I do what I _want_."

"I'm taking you back."

"No," the Joker enunciates each syllable, sliding his fingers out of Batman's mask. "No, you're not."

All at once, he becomes a wild thing underneath Bruce, clawing and twisting with impossible strength. He produces a fallen batarang from nowhere and rams it with brute strength into Bruce's right hand, nearly pinning it to the roof. Bruce shouts in pain and tears it away, cradling the one hand close to his chest and using the other to pummel the Joker as best as he can.

He cackles through the violence, keeping up a wheezing monologue.

"How'd that feel, precious? Listen, I'm _not_ going back. I'm going downstairs, and I'm going to kill Gotham's prince. Did you know they called him the, ah, prince? Well, now he can be their clown prince! It's--Aristo_te_lean justice!" Howls of laughter. "I'm going to give him a smile _just like mine_. Just like the one he took away from me. And you're going to let me." Bruce hears what he doesn't say. You're going to let me hurt the people who hurt me.

"Then I'm going to kill his dog. Or his starlet. Or his Jeeves. His fucking goldfish. Whatever it is he _loves._ I'm going to make him watch. And you. Are going. To let me."

Alfred. A lifetime of needing Alfred to be safe combines with momentary pain and nine years of shielding Bruce Wayne from the Joker. A wave of rage and intense fear sweeps over him.

"_I'll kill you if you touch him._" His voice is not his own.

The Joker stumbles. His face whitens under the makeup. Bruce can tell, because it spreads down his neck.

_Shit_. Bruce takes an involuntary step forward.

"Oh. _Oh_."

"Joker--"

"Oh," the Joker breathes again, and a strange look passes over his face, like he isn't sure what expression to make. It settles in his eyes. Hatred.

Without any more warning, Bruce is fighting for his life.

x

It's complicated. The two of them.

For one thing, it's been years since the beginning. When you know someone for years, you can't help but feel differently about them. There are very few people Bruce has known for years, and they are all important to him.

For another, despite the Joker's protests that he has no rules, it's also been years since he killed innocents. Innocent bystanders, anyway. At least not children. He hasn't killed children in years. Bruce is certain.

x

He's never seen the Joker like this. This isn't a joke, isn't a game or a psychological mind fuck. This is for real. The Joker is trying to kill him. For the first time ever, the full force of the Joker is focused on Batman's death. Bruce would take a second and acknowledge that he will probably succeed, but he doesn't have a second to spare.

His right hand is completely useless.

There is a blinding pain radiating out from his abdomen, and he can feel the blood coursing down his armor. Only luck had kept the Joker from gutting him with one of his own batarangs. It's still making him slow.

The Joker dodges his next blow, and the vicious punch he replies with sends Bruce crashing to his knees.

Another cut, this one slicing up from the underside of his chin to his lower lip. If he survives this, he'll need to adjust the suit to cover the scar.

He tries to stand, and the Joker kicks him down. And once he's on the ground, kick after kick in his ribs, to his back. He stops a minute after Bruce cries out.

The Joker doesn't speak, doesn't breathe, just gasps his painful laughter in and out. Bruce answers his question anyway.

"It's been years," he manages. "Things were different."

The Joker sneers. "So--what? You decided to kill me? Newsflash, doll face--you can't! I won't die until you're man enough to kill me in cold blood. "

"I thought I could help you," Bruce hisses. If the Joker laughed any harder, he'd be crying. "I _can _help you."

"It's too late for that," the Joker gasps, giggles, falling to his knees beside Bruce. He reaches out for Bruce's mask, but checks himself. "Far too late."

And all of a sudden Bruce realizes what this means. That this is the end of it, that this is exactly what he was trying to prevent. This, right now, is the end of them both. Whether Bruce dies and the Joker gets away or the SWAT team that Alfred's likely called by now get here in time to save him and kill the Joker is irrelevant. This is the end.

And it's been _years_. Almost a decade. Rachel is dead, Harvey is dead, Ra's is dead, his parents are dead. Lucius is gone. Selina is gone. Alfred is old, and Jim will retire soon. The Joker saves his life sometimes. And it's been years since he killed any children, and Bruce has never had many constants and maybe he's never had his priorities straight or maybe he's just as mad as the Joker's always said but he can't bear to lose one more.

"No," he snarls. "_No it's not_." And then he strikes, with all his remaining strength.

The Joker drops his makeshift knife. "No--" he says, not laughing, and then he can't make a sound.

His mouth tastes like blood, though there's no way to tell if it's his or Bruce's.

It's not kissing. It's devouring. Whatever it is, the Joker is doing it back, and Bruce is already dizzy from pain and blood loss and this is making it worse.

The Joker tears his mouth away. They both gasp. "You," the Joker snaps, "have entitlement issues."

"I won't do it again," Bruce says stupidly, and the Joker grinds his teeth together.

"I won't," he growls, and thanks god that the Joker has leaned in far enough so he doesn't have to raise his head to kiss him again. The angle's just wrong enough that he can't reach the Joker's mouth, so he kisses the scars, probing the wounded flesh with his tongue.

The Joker is gasping in his ear, and his eyes are squeezed tightly shut. Bruce can feel him shake.

"I--I wouldn't bite me," he babbles, clutching Bruce's shoulders. "I'm a cookie full of arsenic."

And a pus bubble bursts into both their mouths. Bruce spits. The Joker swallows.

Bruce makes a feeble attempt to kiss him again, but breaks off, gasping in pain.

"We've, ah, been here, before, haven't we?" the Joker asks, staring down at him. His face is gory with their blood.

"...Yes."

"You want to play now," the Joker says wonderingly. "That's the game." His face brightens comically. "It'll be _great_. We'll go to New York. We've overdone Gotham. There's practically nothing left to play with. No, Los Angeles. They haven't had a game since--and I want to go to Disneyland. I want it. I want--" his voice trails off, and his eyes snap down to the blood at Bruce's middle.

"I didn't _break_ you, did I?" he asks in a panic. He looks wildly around them, as if he expects to see someone else there.

Bruce laughs.

There are sirens in the air.

The two of them.

It's simple.


End file.
